


Expense Report

by Masu_Trout



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-typical language, Eden Club (Detroit: Become Human), Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, No Orgies Were Had in the Making of This Fic, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 19:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16311035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masu_Trout/pseuds/Masu_Trout
Summary: Fowler had a vaguely shell-shocked sort of look on his face. Hank knew it well; it was the same look he occasionally wore while staring in the mirror, on mornings when he couldn't stop thinking about just how goddamn weird his life had become these past few months.Captain Fowler has some questions about Hank's expense account. Connor isn't helping.





	Expense Report

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is one part practicing these two's voices and one part my desperate desire to have some fun with Hank's dialogue in the Eden Club, haha.

"I think you can guess what this is about," Fowler said, staring Hank down from his spot behind his heavy oak desk. Mouth cut in a harsh frown, eyes narrowed, arms folded against his chest: the chief wasn't happy. And Hank wasn't afraid of him, exactly—if he hadn't been fired yet, they weren't about to cut him loose now—but he still couldn't help but cringe. There was just something indescribably shitty about getting chewed out in the glass-windowed office, with everyone's desks positioned just right to watch Fowler shout his way into an aneurysm on Hank's behalf.

Reed, that prick, would be laughing about this for months. He was already sure of it.

Behind him, Connor's shoes squeaked as shifted back and forth. These days he was never entirely still. Hank'd told him to wait by his desk, but Connor had been nothing but stubborn since the very beginning; deviancy sure hadn't changed that about him.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Hank grumbled. Better to bite the bullet. "Perkins. You don't have to tell me."

On one hand, Hank had managed not to get fired on the spot after punching that smug bastard in his weaselly face. On the other, shittier hand, Perkins had somehow managed to keep his own job even after all the shit he'd pulled the night of Markus' demonstration. Maybe next time he saw the man he could give the bruise on his jaw a sibling, see how many punches he could land before Fowler couldn't save Hank's job any longer.

Well, no. He wouldn't do that. Connor needed a friendly face on the force, for one. But it sure felt nice to imagine.

Fowler sighed. "No. I mean, we are absolutely going to discuss that. But not today."

Hank blinked. That wasn't what Fowler had a bug up his ass about? _Fuck_ , he thought, scratching at the side of his beard as if it could give him the answers. That sure opened the possibilities up a lot.

"Was it the cocksucker thing? The, uh, shit, the handbook, the un-conducting—"

"Page 37, paragraph 4," Connor cut in smoothly. "Discussing _language not conducive to a supportive and harassment-free work environment_."

"Right!" Hank said. "That bit. Because I'll take full responsibility—"

Well, full responsibility for being half-drunk, miserable at the loss of his case, and full of more pent-up rage than a lapdog with a Napoleon complex when Connor had asked for his distraction, at least. Connor was the one responsible for needing a distraction in the first place.

"We'll discuss _that_ the same day we discuss your physical assault of a federal officer."

And just like that, another escape from this miserable guessing game gone. "Um," he said. "Trespassing on CyberLife property? _Destroying_ CyberLife property? Because Connor two-point-oh fucking kidnapped me, I didn't have much of a choice."

"It's true, Fowler," Connor said, "I saw no reason to believe he'd broken any laws while held at CyberLife, and if the company is intending to claim such then I believe we should remind them of the Line of Duty Act of 2034."

Fowler was staring at them openly now, mouth agape. "What did you two _do_ that night?" 

Connor opened his mouth. Fowler held up a hand. "Rhetorical question."

"Ah." Connor nodded. "My apologies."

"Anyway," Fowler groaned, "None of that is the problem." He had a vaguely shell-shocked sort of look on his face. Hank knew it well; it was the same look he occasionally wore while staring in the mirror, on mornings when he couldn't stop thinking about just how goddamn weird his life had become these past few months. "The _problem_ "—he paused a moment to rummage through a stack of papers sitting textbook-high next to him, then triumphantly pulled a few sheets free—"is this."

The force he slammed the papers against the desk with might've been intimidating, had Hank known what the hell they were or what they were for. As it was, he just sort of halfheartedly nodded and tried not to look like too much of a moron.

At his side, Connor said, quietly, "Oh. Right." 

"Your expense reports, Anderson. November 6th, 9:56:57 PM—$29.99 for a thirty-minute rental of a Traci model. November 6th, 9:57:13 PM—$29.99 for a thirty minute rental of a Traci model. 9:57:44 PM, 9:57:59 PM, 9:58:04, 9:58:11... Hank," he groaned, every line in his face radiating _how dare you make me have to ask you this,_ "how the hell did you manage to buy five hundred and ten dollars worth of android prostitutes in under _three minutes_?"

"Oh," Hank said. "Right."

"Five hundred and nine dollars and eighty-three cents worth of android prostitutes in under three minutes, actually," Connor said helpfully. 

It had made sense, hadn't it, when it was quite possibly his only chance to catch a killer? Made a whole lot less sense in the cold light of day, staring at the black-and-white printouts and Fowler's baffled disappointment.

"I take full responsibility, Captain Fowler," Connor said. He leaned over the Fowler's desk, palms pressed flat against the lacquered wood as he stared deeply into Fowler's eyes. His voice was calibrated to what Hank had begun to mentally catalogue as _Boy-Scout-level sincerity_. "It was my fault. You see, I had to touch them—"

"Oh my god," Fowler groaned, hands flying up to press heavily against his face.

Hank pressed his palm to his mouth, trying to turn a laugh into a cough. God, how had he ever gotten through debriefings without Connor?

"I'm just giving the facts," Connor told them both reproachfully. "Lieutenant Anderson's purchases were invaluable on this mission. Without use of his body I wouldn't have been able to obtain the necessary level of physical contact—"

" _Wait_!" Hank snapped. He was flushing red, he could tell. "That's not what, uh, I mean—" He dragged a hand down the side of his face, deep in agony. _Right_ , he thought. _That_ was how he got through debriefings before Connor: by keeping his fucking mouth shut and letting Fowler say whatever the hell he wanted, instead of getting thrown under the bus by his own fucking partner.

"Am I saying something inaccurate?" Connor asked him.

"It's not what you're saying, it's _how_ you've saying it."

Connor frowned. Hank glanced his way, but he couldn't read Connor's face—no way to tell if he was torturing Hank on purpose, or if Hank's embarrassment was just another one of those nonsensical human behaviors Connor hadn't quite managed to sort out the reason for yet.

"Listen," Fowler said, glancing back and forth between the two of them. "Anderson, I'll grant you your expense report. On one condition."

"We never talk about this again?"

Fowler gave him a short, sharp nod. "Good man."

He initialed the top sheet with two short angry swipes of the pen, then glared at them with the tired stare of someone who had officially seen too much. Or, in Fowler's case, heard too much. Much, _much_ , too much.

"Get out of here," he said, and for once Hank was more than happy to follow orders.

It wasn't until they were a few steps out of Fowler's office that Connor cocked his head to the side and, in the same wondering tone of voice he used to offer Hank info like _Did you know St. Bernards used to be called Barry dogs?_ or _Did you know that burger you're eating contains 1430 calories?_ , said, "Is Captain Fowler under the impression that I was having sex with all those Tracis?"

"Did you only just now realize that?"

"In my defense, it's a bizarre chain of logic." Connor frowned. "We weren't there for more than forty-five minutes, how is he imagining I'd find the time?" The LED on his forehead swirled, calculating. "Well, I suppose if I—"

"We're not fucking discussing this, Connor."

Connor slid a look Hank's direction, then, eyes lighting up in a way that had Hank immediately terrified. Nothing good ever came of Connor looking _inspired_. "Really, Lieutenant?" he asked, voice thick with cloyingly fake concern. "I never would've guessed you minded that sort of discussion, considering—"

" _Connor_!" Hank snapped. Connor was going to get mad if he kept on interrupting him, but he just—couldn't. "Not in the office," he added under his breath.

Because, okay, sure, he wasn't exactly... opposed to having certain sorts of conversations with Connor in the privacy of his own home. (Conversations, ha. It wasn't talking they spent most of their time on.) But there was a difference between that and _this_. Making their boss (Hank's old classmate, a groomsman at his fucking wedding) entertain, for even a second, the mental image of Hank's wrinkly ass joining an eighteen-android orgy with his own partner and a metric fuckton of Tracis ought to be against the Geneva Conventions.

Connor tilted his head to the side, thinking. "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter," he decided. With a devious— _deviant, ha_ , Hank thought fondly—smile, he added, "I'm not sharing you, after all."

"Damn right you're not," Hank grumbled, trying and failing not to return Connor's smile. "I can barely keep up with one of you plastic assholes, let alone a dozen."

"I don't know," said Connor, "I'd say you _keep up_ fairly well."

Fuck it. Hank was out. He strode back to his desk in a handful of long, desperate strides. 

"Hank." Connor was keeping pace with him easily. "Was that no good? I've been trying to improve my bantering skills—"

Hank sat down at his desk and shoved his earbuds in his ears. But he didn't turn his volume to max, drown-Connor-out cacophony that he once might have gone for, and when Connor gave him a curious look—cool and unconcerned and yet so very clearly his way of asking, _Have I bothered you_?—he rolled his eyes and gave Connor another small smile before turning back to his computer once more.

He had the feeling the rest of the office was staring. But hey, what the hell. Let them stare.


End file.
